


Cost

by frickincheng



Category: Dragon Age
Genre: Blood Magic, Chaptered, Drug Addiction, F/M, Lyrium, M/M, Mage, Other, Religion, Revenge, The Chantry, Violence
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2012-12-12
Updated: 2012-12-12
Packaged: 2017-11-20 22:49:18
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,567
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/590514
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/frickincheng/pseuds/frickincheng
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A templar, having finally hunted the last of a family of wandering apostates to ground, meets his match when his quarry turns to blood magic to guarantee his own survival.</p>
<p>Co-written with Snow.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

_I’ve got you now._

The thought echoed, maddeningly loud in the templar’s skull. It outweighed his heavy battle and use-dented armor, outweighed his own growing weariness, the arthritic ache that the cold made his joints suffer. There was something addictive about the assurance of victory--

And this one had been long in coming. _Too_ long.

Tal’s lips moved in time to his mantra, his short-cropped, silver-threaded hair sweat-drenched and straggling down his pale forehead, though every grunting gasp of his own plumed the cold air with steam, and now and then (almost as if in time to the heavy thuds of his axe against old timbers) a hard, bone-chilling breeze rustled the red-and-gold leaves of deep autumn where they still clung to the reedy, thin arms and branches of the trees that clustered thickly enough around to cast a false twilight now that the sun was dipping low. It rattled the metal badges of his rank together against his breastplate like old bones.

He was alone, now, the only dog still on the hunt, his quarry gone to ground in a shabby little one-room cabin nestled in the foothills, deep enough in the lonely woods that it wouldn’t be stumbled upon easily. His horse, untethered and dead broke, waited mere strides away, one ear twitched lazily towards the sound of his axe tearing into the one door.

_I’ve got you now._

~*~

It was only him left now. 

In the beginning he hadn’t questioned their constant traveling, settling down for only a year or two before moving on to another little village. But they had always been comfortable; Ma made the best potions and concoctions to sell at the apothecary, and the extra money had always afforded them the ability to keep traveling.

For most of his youth, he hadn’t understood the reasons. Not until a he’d fallen down the creek and Ma’s hands had glowed blue, easily patching a nasty break in his leg. He’d only been eight, but he’d known what that meant. 

He had heard the sisters preaching the Chant of Light. 

_Is this why we move, Ma?_

Her blue eyes had been so sad then that he clung to her, small arms wrapping fiercely around her middle, even though he’d been the one hurt. 

Later, the signs had shown both in him and in Alla, and bit by bit she had taught them, pouring over the old tome she kept hidden among their things. Alla had the raw power, but lacked precision and control. He had the control, but tired easily. They’d often laughed over how if they could just _combine_ their powers, they might become unstoppable. It seemed like ages ago. Aeons.

He wasn’t sure how the templar had found them. Late one afternoon he’d simply... _been_ there, a faceless body in armor. Looming inside their home, already hard at work when Danil had come back from the village, selling more of their concoctions. Alla had already been lying at his feet, body one way, head the other, her blue eyes crusted open, staring. 

Ma was screaming, crying, fingers pressed to the deep bleeding wound in her shoulder. But the blood around her, started moving, coalescing to a mist, rearing up, and he could feel her power- The axe fell then, and then there was just blood, no will, no intent. 

No _Ma_. 

And Danil ran, had been running ever since, but now... Now he was out of money, out of places to run, out of _time_.

The axe thudded against the door, this time splintering the wood, the shining blade peeking through. Danil thought of Ma, and a snarl suddenly spasmed across his face. He didn’t know the exact method, but with theory, with _anger_....

A blade was easy to find and he cut deeply across both forearms, the blood streaming down his arms. And he forced all his rage, all his pain, all his will into it and sent it _screaming_ towards the door. 

And the door shattered. Not inward, but outward, the work done by the axe to weaken it turned now against its wielder. The templar didn’t have time to curse, and was thrown back with the myriad pieces of splintered, blood-splattered lumber down the steps of the small porch.

The horse, well behind, whinnied and shied aside, stamping nervously at the cold-hardened ground, and the armored figure didn’t immediately move, laying where it had fallen.

Danil stood there, shaking, the raw power as potent as lust curling over his tongue. His knees were shaky as he stumbled outside, staring down at the felled body. 

“Why couldn’t you just leave us alone?” His words steamed out in white, icy puffs of air, his sharp featured face contorted in pain. 

The fallen templar moved then, jerking his booted foot to ram the back of his heel against the side of the blood mage’s knee. He used the momentum of the movement to roll aside and gain his feet, teeth bared, shaking with the thrill of the hunt.

“You must be cleansed,” he snarled, gauntleted hand grabbing a knife from his belt.

Danil screamed and fell, feeling something going horribly wrong in his knee. His lips peeled back in a furious grimace, teeth gritted against the pain. But despite the pain, he felt like he was floating, flying high. For once he had power, real, _raw_ power at his disposal, something that he could shape with the control he had been given. 

_For you, Alla._

“We were doing nothing until you came along.” The blood was still flowing freely down his arms, scarlet trails over his pale skin. The power was there, heady and strong, burning at the back of his throat, and he laughed, wild and harsh, fingers twisting for a few quick sigils, feeling the spell roar through him. 

He and Alla had always sneaked peeks at the battle magic near the end of the book, pouring over the elemental spells, and honestly some of the nastier stuff as well. Danil had never had the power to complete them. But now.....

Lightning streamed from his body in a strong, blue bolt, crackling with power. 

The templar jerked aside, moving preternaturally fast... but not quite fast enough. The blue bolt caught the side of his face, blackening the skin on contact. His helmet had fallen off into the snow when the blast had knocked him back; had left him defenseless. His hair, too, was singed away, the eye nearest the bolt burst in its socket, oozing heat-blackened ichor down its owner’s wind-raw cheek.

The other eye clamped shut with pain-- but only for a second before snapping open again. He threw the heavy knife in his hand at the thin, wavering shape of the mage before him.

Danil jerked, the scent of burning flesh cutting through the blood lust, and his blue eyes widened as he saw the templar fall. He hadn't thought the spell would even work, not really, but here was the templar, fallen, his face a ruin, all because of Danil. 

The young man shook, inhaling a quick, frantic breath, distracted, so when he finally saw the knife, it was buried deep, almost to the hilt, into his shoulder. He let out his own scream, falling over, as the agony washed over him. His fingers twitched weakly, as he called up the signs, for healing, directing the power over himself. And gagged weakly, as the power just jarred, the spell washing over him, with little or no effect. His head turned, cheek flat on the cold ground, looking up at the templar’s nightmarish features. 

“Maker help me.” He whimpered, barely audible.

His attacker, breathing raggedly, set the toe of one heavy, armor-clad boot against the inside of Danil’s elbow, pinning his one arm to the frozen ground. He bent at the waist-- a process his armor made slow-- and reached a gauntleted hand to slowly twist the knife in Danil’s shoulder.

“Are there more?” He whispered, voice low and soft-- invitational rather than threatening, cajoling.

Danil felt the knife grate against bone and he let out a fresh scream, the tortured sound of it rending the frozen air. Tears sluiced down his gaunt cheeks, but his eyes burned with hate. 

“All killed.” He grated out, once he could stop screaming. 

A muffled thud interrupted whatever the templar might have added; a black-shafted arrow suddenly having sprouted at a joint in his armor where pauldron connected to his breastplate. The man could only make out its crude, black fletching, twisting his neck even for that, hissing lowly in pain.

“Darkspawn,” he breathed in wondering dismay, staggering a half-step back, his booted foot freeing Danil. His expression hardened again, and he swiped the still-hot goo of his own eye from his face, using the same hand to reach down and jerk the blade free of his quarry.

The echo of guttural, inhuman laughter filtered through the dark shapes of the trees.

More blood spurted from the wound in Danil’s shoulder, and he let out a sharp cry of pain as the blade tugged free. Dark blood dripped from the wound, thicker than the shallow cuts, and Danil gagged with the agony, body curling over himself, shaking. 

But the whisper of the templar roused him, because darkspawn wouldn't care if he was a mage or not; he'd still just be _food_. His fingers shook as he dipped them into the thick puddle of blood pooling under his shoulder. The movements were hesitant, the sigil one he wasn't familiar with, but soon enough he had it sketched out. 

He reached back into himself, pulling out that power that he knew was curling through his blood. It hurt this time, ripping out the power that he knew was coming from a dwindling supply, but he just pointed at the dark shapes rising from the edge of the forest. His breath steamed out, power crackling, blue bolts of lightning suddenly illuminating the dusky sky in flashing, frozen stills. 

He slumped down then, trembling and panting, barely holding on to consciousness.

The templar flinched away from the flash of blue-- body rocking as another arrow glanced off the glossy metal of the other shoulder's pauldron with a hollow clang. "Maker keep us," he breathed, aching and winded as he watched those remaining creatures lope through the growing darkness towards them. And then, mouth twisting, he jerked forward, roughly kicking Danil in the temple.

Danil's grasp on consciousness was already tenuous, and with that sharp blow he slumped, body going limp.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Danil learns that his captor isn't as sane as he'd like him to be. Oh, and there's probably a Blight.

It was nearly a full day later when Danil awoke, to sharp pains radiating around the swollen and still-tender area where he'd been kicked. His face had been washed, the blood and sweat gone-- and though blood had dried to a rust-colored crust on the front of his shirt, the knifewound at his shoulder had also been seen to, and beneath the clothes thick bandaging wrapped around his chest. It was full dark around him, though the nearby glow of a fire illuminated the campsite.

The templar sat nearby, still armored, his short hair glossy with the grease and sweat of days without washing; his back to a craggy rock face that stretched above them and into the night, protecting their backs from wind and potential attack. The dark shapes of alpine trees loomed around them, following down the slope; and the his horse was tethered to one of them, lazily slouching against the rough bark, eyes half-lidded. Its tack was arranged neatly around the fire, perhaps already cleaned for the day, and Danil himself was stretched out on a thick hide-and-hair bedroll.

The templar was chewing slowly on some dried meat, bitten off from a larger piece still held in his fist, his glazed and overbright eye staring into the fire.

Consciousness was not kind to Danil, as pain throbbed through his head, accented by the agony in his shoulder and duller pain in his knee. He let out a fuzzy moan, and tried to sit up before realizing his hands were bound, and slumped back down again, his breathing coming a little too quickly. He licked at his dry, chapped lips, gaze flicking over to the templar. Half his face was swathed in bandages and Danil felt a sharp jolt of satisfaction. He stared at the man, at the food he was gnawing at, and his stomach growled, hunger-pain adding to his sensations. But he didn't say a word, just tightened his lips, though his hard gaze remained fixed on the other man.

The sound of Danil's growling stomach must have risen over even the crackle of the fire, for the templar turned to stare. His expression was vacant for a moment, his pupils small dark points in the brilliant green of his eyes. In a little time, some clarity seemed to come to him-- but only a little.

"The Maker delivered you to me," he said, very certain.

Danil shuddered, the reaction having very little to do with pain. "And a demon brought you to me." He whispered back, his voice dry and cracking. 

"Don't worry, mageling. You'll be cleansed of all your demons soon. The Maker delivered you to me," And he was back to being vacant and distant, his gaze drawn towards the fire.

Danil turned his head, pressing his face into the bedroll, the dusty scent of travel rising from it, and squeezed his eyes shut. "Maker take you." He whispered into the skin, barely audible.

“I am ever in His hand,” was the soft-voiced answer. And then the creaking of leathers and metal as the templar slowly pulled himself to his feet, tearing away another bite of his dried meat and chewing it noisily. “I need you to fix what you’ve done to me.”

Danil’s lips tightened, and the light in his ice-blue eyes flared. “Whatever gave you the idea that I would help you?” 

“The Maker delivered you to me. You’ll help me.” His leather-clad hand rose to probe at the bandages that wrapped his face. A thin sweat filmed his facial features, and when he stared at Danil, he seemed almost to be seeing through the other man. “You’ve already helped me.”

“Self preservation.” Danil spat out. “The darkspawn would kill me.” A look of agony spasmed across his face. “I watched you kill my mother and my sister before my eyes.”

“I would have killed you.” Certain as steel, solemn as a prayer. “But you attacked the tainted beasts, when I was an easier target. It isn’t only survival that rules your blackened spirit. The Maker works in you, even demon-ridden as you are.”

“I am no abomination.” Danil hissed out. He made another attempt, this time successful to sit up, his bound hands lying in his lap. His eyes gleamed, wild, reckless. “What if I refuse to heal you? What will you do?” He licked his lips. “Kill me?”

“Yes,” he answered, bending one knee to kneel beside Danil, offering the rest of his meat to his prisoner. “When you’ve fulfilled your purpose.”

“...My purpose?” Danil barked out a laugh. “And what if you decide that’s just healing you?”

The templar scowled. “Don’t blaspheme, mage.” He shook his head. “If I had killed you when we were attacked, another day would have seen me back to the Circle, healed by mages who didn’t dally with darkness. The Maker has revealed a greater purpose for us both.”

Danil was silent then, pondering. He was in no shape to move himself. Out of money, out of food, weak, and injured. He looked down at the meat the templar offered him, mouth twisting.

Maybe he could travel with the man, get his strength up, and then just run off. It was honestly his best option. Another moment, passed then he sighed and took the proffered food, hungrily gnawing into it before replying. 

“I’ll need my hands free to heal you.” 

The templar hefted a knife-- the same he’d thrown into Danil’s shoulder-- from his boot, cutting through the thick cords that bound his prisoner with ease. “Finish eating, and then there’s something you need to see.”

Danil held very still as that knife sliced through the ropes, staring down at it with distaste. He rotated his wrists slightly, eyeing the marks there just for a moment, before going back to eating. 

He was done very quickly, the pain in his stomach subsiding somewhat. He looked up at the templar then, his eyes wary, but ready.

Tal had risen to his feet in that time, walking past the tethered horse and stepping into the shadows of the treeline. His armor reflected a watery image of the small campfire. “Come with me.”

The wariness redoubled in Danil’s eyes and he slowly followed the templar. At a distance though, like a feral animal. His gait was uneven, a limp marring it, but the slowness of his pace was not just from that injury. 

Fear crawled up his throat, cloying and choking and suddenly he was sure that the templar was going to kill him. That heavy axe strapped to his back would fall, splitting Danil in two, just like his mother, just like Alla. 

He was shaking now, sweat crawling down his hairline, slicking the nape of his neck, but he kept on walking, he didn’t have much choice. But he started to build the focus in his mind needed for a spell, to strike out, when the templar struck him.

They walked long enough for the mountain chill to bite at them, and all their aches and pains to flare. And their path took them along the downward slope of the mountain, with intermittent crags veering off into long falls to their right. “Shhh. Quiet, now.” The templar reached a gauntleted hand back, though he didn’t turn, hand open to give Danil pause. “There. Down the mountain. Do you see it?”

Hundreds of pinpoint lights winked in the darkness below; and with the cover of the forest, must have seemed like a blanket of night sky fallen to earth. For a long moment, the silence was utter and complete.

Danil blinked, relief coming, sudden and swift, though wary curiosity chased at his heels. “What...?” He whispered, eyes scanning over the blanket of lights. “A campsite?” He whispered finally. “Mustering?” 

“Not quite a host,” whispered back the templar. “But the beginnings of one. Before daylight had passed, you could hear the cries of dying men. Now, I can only think that they’re glutting on blood and death.” His hand moved to absently outline a symbol of protection in the air, though there was no power in the gesture.

“It’s a miracle that our chase didn’t send us into their jaws.”

Danil let out a soft, shaky breath. “Maker preserve us.” He whispered, pale eyes wide. “Could this be...another Blight?” His words were soft and hushed, fear edging them.

“A test of our faith, at the very least,” sighed his unlikely companion. “I’m no Grey Warden, to say what this is, or isn’t, besides that.” He turned, slowly, so that he could actually see the smaller figure of the mage behind him.

Danil’s arms slowly circled around his own skinny body, lightly gripping himself. “Let’s just....go back now.” He whispered, casting another fearful glance down at the widespread camp. “Don’t want to get noticed.” The fear of the templar disappeared in favor of this new, unknown one. Darkspawn were the things of nightmares, of stories. They weren’t supposed to be here. 

“Quietly,” was the soft agreement, and the armored man slid back toward the camp. The initial effects of his dose were leaving him, now, and the agony of his injuries must have returned full force. He lagged behind Danil on the return trip, panting before long, the thin patina of sweat that had covered his face before given over to a steady sweat; beads of the stuff rolled down his forehead and cheeks to drip from his nose and chin.

He didn’t stop, or venture to speak.

Danil noticed the templar’s lagging pace, and glanced back a couple of times. He really shouldn't be surprised, not with the horrific injuries that the man had been sporting. Honestly, he supposed he should have been surprised he had been holding up as well as he had. 

The mage just barely shook his head, keeping his gaze downcast until they made it back to their tiny camp.

The templar said nothing as they made it back to the camp, pulling his heavy cloak from where he'd rolled it to rest atop the horse's orderly arrangement of tack. "Food and water in the saddlebags," he offered as he pulled the garment around his shoulders, tugging up its hood. "Sleep if you can."

He kicked some wood gathered well before onto the low fire, stirring it to life, and retreated back to his earlier spot, to sit with his back to the rock face.

Danil’s gaze flicked back to the templar, before stealing over to the saddlebags, pulling out another piece of dried meat. The templar hadn’t asked to be healed yet, and Danil certainly wasn’t going to bring it to the man’s attention. He gnawed at the meat before curling down before the fire, trying to find a comfortable position for his many injuries. The warmth of the fire seemed like a tiny spark in the very dark, very cold night.


End file.
